Out of nowhere, Rachelle jumped quickly into the other chair at the table, with her huge smile and said, “No date tonight?”
Paul smiled and said, “You’re always working.” He was shocked he said it, and Rachelle was taken by surprise.
Oh, this certainly has been an interesting day, she thought, reflecting on Timothy asking her out and now the humorous remark by Paul. “Friends make safe dates,” Rachelle replied.
“Yes, that was what I was thinking,” Paul shot back.
Rachelle wanted to change the subject and asked, “What are you having for dinner?”
He answered, “The black bean wrap with grilled salmon and artichoke hearts.” It was his creation and favorite dish. Joey even put it on the menu as “The Powers Special.” It came with sweet potato fries, and the meal did pretty well with the patrons. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” Paul asked her.
Rachelle answered, “All set, my friend. See you at 10:00 am.”
“OK,” he answered, “I’ll say good night before I leave.” Rachelle was working until 11:00 pm. Normally Joey Z would close the place, but Rachelle was taking most of the day off on Saturday for the ferry ride to Connecticut and back. Paul ate his dinner and was amazed at how busy the place got. Z Pita had an extremely loyal following in the local community. He grew to be very fond of the servers in the restaurant during the past few years, from Tina to Rebecca to Donna to Bobby and the rest of the staff, and still Joey Z always gave credit to Rachelle on her hiring practices. Tina served his dinner and asked a trivia question as she did, and Paul told her he wanted her to meet Bud.
“He is the trivia master, and you two would have a good time,” he said.
“Bring him in,” Tina replied. She had met Bud many times when he was with Paul, but the conversation had never gone beyond normal cordial greetings.
Paul finished his meal and said good night to everyone, including Rachelle. He wanted to hug her good night, but his shyness and insecurity got the best of him. As he walked out the front door, his thoughts went to the next day. It was time to put some pressure on the case. There was a woman who had been held in captivity for almost a week, and nothing was happening...at least as far as he knew.
As he walked around the back of Z Pita, he could smell the food being cooked in the restaurant. He climbed the stairs, got to his room, and pushed the voice-message playback. It was Bud, and he was singing the lyrics to “Always On my Mind” and then stopped to leave his message: “Sorry, it’s all I could think of. I don’t recall the lyrics to Jewel, Olivia Newton-John, or any of the other female singers you love. I’ll pick you up at 9:30 am, my partner. I told Detective Lieutenant Cronin we will report in around 2:00 pm tomorrow, that we have a lead. Somehow I’m not sure he believes me, but I’m with you, friend.” Paul heard the click, and the answering machine said, “End of messages.” He smiled and went into the bathroom to wash up for the night.
Saturday, June 11
Bud kept his word and came up the stairs at 9:30 am. “Don’t you lock your door? Shit, anybody can just open up and make themselves right at home.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” was Paul’s reply. “You worry about everything.” Bud and Paul walked down to the ferry, and there was Allan, Timothy, and Rachelle already waiting for them by the pedestrian area for walk-ons. It was easier to be a walk-on than deal with the long line of vehicles that always filled up the ferry, plus it was a lot less expensive.
They all got on the boat and Paul immediately brought Bud, Timothy, Allan, and Rachelle to the lower vehicle deck to watch the cars drive onto the ferry. They all were quiet as Paul stated his theory. “OK, look at the cars loading onto the massive boat. The attendant is giving directions on when to stop. Look at the woman in the Honda. Watch her get out of the car. Look at everyone around her. No one is paying attention to her. I would also be willing to bet she doesn’t have a reservation like most people, that’s the key. All they’re concerned with upstairs in the purser’s office is that the vehicle is paid for before you leave the ferry. Now, let’s follow her. You’ll find she’ll go to the purser’s office and pay for the ticket.” Within minutes the woman they were following went to the window and pulled out her credit card.
“They have her name,” Timothy said.
“Yes,” Paul answered “but not if she had paid in cash.”
“What does that have to do with kidnapping her?” Bud interjected.
“Patience,” Paul answered. “What would happen if and when they got her near the car they dragged her, threw her in the trunk and had an accomplice drive her car off the ferry? No one would know the difference.”
“Come on,” Allan replied.
“I’ll prove it to you,” Paul replied. He looked at Rachelle, who was taking all of this in. “Rachelle, write this theory in the paper and say we are going to reenact it on the ferry.”
“I can’t do that,” Rachelle remarked. “The ferry will not allow it, first of all, but I can write something that may put a scare in the kidnappers.”
Paul answered, “We know Debbie was on the boat, her father watched her drive over the ramp on to the boat. I think it would be helpful to us if we take a look at the possible scenario. If its in the paper, it may or may not give the kidnappers pause or doubt. If not, at least we made public a security risk on the ferry. It may be a long shot but they may even get sloppy or even release her knowing we have figured out how they did it. That is if they haven’t already killed her. The ferry reached Connecticut, and the four of them got off and then went back on the return ferry to Port Jefferson.” Paul began thinking out loud as they were going back to Port Jefferson. “Why bring her to Connecticut? She had to be on Long Island.”
“Hey,” Bud interrupted his thoughts. “The FBI told us she was going to a concert.”
“We need to know more,” Paul replied. “Something isn’t right. We have to get involved somehow.”
“And I have to get a burger,” Bud replied. “Hey, Rachelle, how are the burgers at Z Pita?”
She laughed and said, “You are a funny guy, Bud Johnson.”
“Yes, that’s what they tell me. Right, Paul?”
As the boat docked at Port Jefferson, Paul could hear that laugh of Timothy’s again. He looked over and he saw him put his arm around Rachelle for a second, which caused his heart to skip a beat.
“You are fucked up,” Bud said, looking at Paul. “You’re going to let this guy move in on her?”
“We’re just friends,” Paul said as he looked away at the Long Island Sound.
“There is nothing better than being in and out of bed with a friend,” Bud replied. “Don’t make me lose respect for you,” he said as he walked away.
Paul grabbed his arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know you, Paul; that’s all I should have to say. Get some rest; starting tomorrow we have the late shift for a week.”
Paul walked over to Rachelle, Tim, and Allan. “Timothy, please keep your eyes and ears open in the bar, especially once Rachelle’s article is printed,” he said. “Allan, I stand by what I said about whomever did this is local. Just be aware, and keep your eyes open.”
“OK,” Allan said, “but I’m not sure why you have me involved.”
“Because I’ve known you for over 20 years, and I trust you, that’s why,” Paul replied as he hugged him. They walked off the boat, and Paul could see Tim and Rachelle walking ahead, as if they wanted privacy. Paul got the message and stopped for a minute as if he was waiting for Bud. As he walked slowly, Bud caught up to him and said goodbye.
Paul had a chance to see how beautiful Port Jefferson was. There was no comparison between it and Bridgeport, the other destination of the ferry. Although he had lived there for many years, he never tired of the village and it always gave him pleasure to just stop and look around. One day he counted 24 restaurants within a two-minute walk from Z Pita. He didn’t remember
why he had the time to find out, but he always remembered that number.
Paul reached the top of the stairs above Z Pita, when his cell phone rang. It was Detective Lieutenant Cronin asking him to stop by the office. There were some things to be discussed. Before he left to go to the office, he sent Rachelle a text that he would see her the next Saturday at the ferry and to please get her article printed for Tuesday’s edition. Rachelle received the text downstairs and was puzzled by the distant nature of Paul’s words, but answered him and said OK. Paul just shook his head and, as he lay on his bed, decided he needed an attitude adjustment with Rachelle before he destroyed a wonderful friendship. It was difficult, but Paul forced himself off the bed to drive back to the precinct.
William Lance was by the phone waiting for instructions about his daughter. It had to be about the money. Lance was a self-made millionaire who had started and then sold a chain of 8:15 convenience stores. They were like 7-11 stores, except 7-11 is open 24 hours a day. The 8:15 stores were like an office convenience store. Everything for your business needs with the hours 8:15 am to 8:15 pm. It was a huge success and quickly grew to 24 locations all over Long Island in 20 years. He sold the 8:15 convenient stores for $47 million, then went on to become Suffolk County executive. He retired at 55 and bought the famous Pink Mansion up in Belle Terre once owned by a famous Contessa.
Special agent Jack O’Connor was with Lance and had been very accessible during the week that had gone by. He also knew that the likelihood of getting Debbie Lance back was unlikely. The kidnappers didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get this wrapped up, even for the money. Debbie’s car was found a mile from the Bridgeport Cross Island Ferry, which meant that from the time she drove off the boat, she was kidnapped within five to twelve minutes of driving off the dock. O’Connor questioned William Lance hard about why he was targeted. Someone close, on the inside, had to be involved. Everything was moving so slowly.
O’Connor’s thoughts were interrupted when a call came in from a Connecticut number. O’Connor used his hands as a countdown to William Lance as to when to pick up the phone. Five, four, three, it seemed forever as Lance watched his fingers count down to one, so O’Connor’s team could get in place.
“Hello,” Lance answered the phone.
In a voice that sounded like a cross between John Tesh and Vincent Price, the reply was, “Three million dollars by Sunday, June 19th to be left in the trunk of a car that will be on the ferry’s 10:00 am boat to Bridgeport, the George Washington. There will be a yellow Honda Accord on the ferry. We will get the key to you during the week. You will drive on the boat, get out, find the yellow Honda, open the trunk, and put the money in the trunk. When the ferry arrives in Bridgeport, you will drive off the ferry and drive back to Long Island. Do you have any questions?”
“Ah,” Lance replied, “how do I get my daughter back, and I can’t liquidate $3 million worth of cash so fast. Please give me more time.”
The calm, evil voice on the other end replied, “You will get her back, dead or alive. You have until the 19th, no more. It depends on whether your friends at the FBI decide how involved they want to be. If we see them on the ferry, you will get your daughter back dead, guaranteed.”
There was silence on Lance’s end. “That’s right,” said the caller. “You don’t think I know the FBI is involved with this? New York to Connecticut ferry? Give me a break. We will get a key to you.” The line went dead.
O’Connor’s cell phone rang, and the man on the other end told him the call had been traced to a McDonald’s on Boston Post Road in in Orange, Connecticut.
“Wait,” Lance yelled at O’Connor. “Are you trying to get my daughter killed?”
“Listen,” O’Connor answered, “her only hope is if we find them. If you pay this ransom, I don’t think you will get her back alive. The more time that goes by, the less likely this will work out.”
Lance just sat down and put his hands over his face. O’Connor hesitated and sat down next to him and asked, “Is there anything you’re not telling me? We need to know everything if we’re going to save her. What happened to her mother?”
“We divorced when Deborah was six; she lived with her mom until her mother got sick. She was 13 when she lost her mother and has been with me ever since. She graduated from Stony Brook University and has been a teacher at Mount Sinai Schools for only a year.”
“Why her?” asked O’Connor. “There has to be more to this than money.”
“Excuse me, sir, dinner will be served in 10 minutes.”
“Thank you, Robert,” Lance said as O’Connor looked at William Lance’s assistant, Robert Simpson. He was muscular, good-looking, and 37 years of age, though he looked younger.
“How long has he worked for you?”
“Twelve years,” replied Lance. “I trust him with my life, and he loves Deborah. He would never hurt her. He’s almost as torn up about this as I am.”
“Mr. Lance,” O’Connor replied, “can you get ahold of three million in cash by Sunday, June 19th? Eight days from now?”
“Yes, I could get it tomorrow,” he replied. “I’ve always worried about what’s been going on in this country, so I keep cash aside on the property.”
“Three million in cash?” O’Connor replied.
“Yes,” Lance answered.
“And how would they know to ask for three million? Tell me. What are you not telling me or forgetting to tell me? Who knows about the cash being hidden somewhere on the property? Also, if you had the cash on the property, how did you know to ask for more time?”
“Three people,” answered Lance. “Deborah, myself, and Robert, and it was Detective Powers who told me to delay and ask for more time.”
“Why does Simpson know about the cash?” O’Connor asked.
“In case anything happened to us. I wanted him to have it.” O’Connor looked even more puzzled and had a look on his face that told the former Suffolk County executive that he thought he was an asshole without even saying it.
“Did you do a background check on him 12 years ago?”
“Yes, of course,” Lance replied.
“Show it to me. Besides, we’re going to check it out ourselves. As for the cash, are you sure it’s still there? Check it out, and do it now.” He called for Agent Summers, who was in the next room. “Let’s get the guys together and get a plan on what we’re going to do on the 19th.”
Paul arrived at the precinct and immediately went into Detective Lieutenant Cronin’s office. “Where’s Bud?” Cronin asked before Paul even shut the door.
“Not sure. We said goodbye in Port Jefferson this afternoon. We have the late shift all next week.”
“What cases are you working on?” Cronin replied.
“No murders in the past 32 days, so we’ve been working on a couple of cold cases from 2004 and 2006.”
“Keep me posted. I may have you and Bud help out on a couple of robbery crimes if they need it within the week.”
“What about the Lance kidnapping?” Paul replied.
“What about it?” Cronin replied.
“The FBI is going nowhere and...”
“And what ?” Cronin interrupted him. “Paul, you are a good cop, but stay away before you get all of us in trouble. She’s in Connecticut, across state lines, and there has been no murder.”
“How do we know there is no murder?” Paul shot back.
“Dismissed,” Cronin replied. Paul just stood there until Cronin looked up at him with a look as if to say “What are you still doing here?”
As Paul opened the door to leave, he said, “She’s in Port Jefferson, not Connecticut,” then shut the door just in time because Detective Lieutenant Cronin jumped out of his seat and was at the door within seconds.
He yelled in the squad room for everyone to hear. “Get your smart ass back in my office now!” Paul stared at him, dropped his papers, and slowly walked back to his
office. “Shut the door!” Cronin bellowed. “Explain yourself before I send you home for good.”
“Detective Lieutenant,” Paul replied, “she is in Port Jefferson, somewhere.”
“Do you have proof?” Cronin replied.
“No, but I will very soon.”
“What are you doing?” Cronin replied. “No, wait, I don’t want to know. Are you breaking any laws?”
“No,” Paul replied. “Give me one week, I will prove within seven days the kidnappers are from this area. Everything went down too smoothly. Just give me a week.” Cronin stared at him and gave him his famous stern look that no one liked to see.
“Paul, you have one week. Keep Bud in the loop, and make sure you keep him around for backup. Most important, stay away from the FBI.”
“Yes, sir.” Paul replied.
“Dismissed again,” Cronin replied. “And this time, no remarks when you’re walking through my door. Go home, enjoy tomorrow. You have a long week ahead of you.”
Sunday, June 12
Seven Days Until Ransom Due
Rachelle sat down at her computer Sunday morning and wrote about the theory of the Lance kidnapping. The headline read “The Port Jefferson Kidnapping—Local Police Detective’s Theory.” She wrote about Paul’s theory on how they kidnapped Debbie and how they got away with it. She wrote about how the Cross Island Ferry never checked vehicles getting on or off the boat and never checked bags from pedestrians walking on or off, not to mention metal detectors for guns and bombs.
She wrote how Debbie Lance drove onto the ferry, was most likely thrown into a trunk of another car, and another person drove her car off the boat and left it on the side of the road in Connecticut. Whoever kidnapped her, paid for her vehicle in cash, allowing anyone to drive it off the boat. With no reservation, there were no names, and there would not be proof if her father had not witnessed her car loading on the ferry. All they cared about was that the number of vehicles on the boat matched the number of tickets sold on the boat. Rachelle criticized the security of the ferry to the extent that she demanded that security cameras and a security system be put in place to avoid this kind of event from happening again. The ferry had what looked like cameras on the boat, but no video was recorded the day Deborah disappeared. She continued writing to tell her readers she would be on the boat Saturday to reenact what local officers believed was how the kidnappers pulled it off. She surprised herself because she had just told Paul she couldn’t write it, but she did just that. As she put the finishing touches on the article, she sent Paul a text asking if she could stop up at the apartment before she started work at Z Pita. He replied right away to stop over.
The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel Page 4
